Wicked
by blackmunji
Summary: PWP: About a month into their marriage, John is still swamped with work and keeps long hours managing accounts, forcing Margaret to take desperate measures...


Little lemon that wouldn't leave. Absolutely PWP. Probably a little OOC at turns. My first lemon ever, so be gentle. If you really want some vivid visuals to accompany the story, check out Richard Armitage in "Between the Sheets" and imagine him in sideburns *grins wickedly* And of course, the usual blather about how all of this belongs to Elizabeth Gaskell, except not really, because it's in the public domain. Cheers.

* * *

Margaret sat at the dresser, wondering how much longer her husband was going to be in the study. John had said that there were still accounts that needed reviewing, and that he would join her in an hour or two, but that had been three hours ago, and Margaret was not sure that she could pretend to brush her hair any longer. Mrs. Thornton—no, Hannah, for she herself was Mrs. Thornton now—and all of the servants had long since gone to bed, and she did not want to sleep before she was sure that John was coming.

No, that was not quite it. She stood up and paced the chamber slowly, retaining most of her famed poise and self-control. She was restless, not only because she wanted to see her husband, who had been busy for the past few months with mill affairs leading up to and continuing into their marriage, but because this was a significant night for her. Her monthly courses had finished, and she wanted her husband to stoke the heat coiled in her belly.

Her thoughts danced idly back to their wedding night, when John had begun to introduce his wife gently to the duties of the marriage bed. He had not asked for much that first night, displaying an uncharacteristic patience as he coaxed his wife out of the shell of lady-like morals and sexual shame that she had grown up learning. Margaret knew that some women had had comprehensive educations regarding the matter, but _she_ had only had Aunt Shaw, who thought of marital duties as precisely that, duties; Edith, who spoke in too many vague euphemisms, giggly flushes, and fluttering hand gestures; and Hannah Thornton, whom she had dared not ask for obvious reasons. It had taken him three weeks, three weeks of small squabbles and small pleasures in which he had learned to open her up more intimately than she had ever thought possible, using his mouth and hands, and Margaret flushed from the pleasure of the memory when he had asked her to enter, and she had finally said yes. They had had four glorious nights of lovemaking when her courses had come, and she had endeavored to learn how to use _her_ mouth and hands to pleasure him in kind.

Margaret realized her breaths had grown shorter and more turbulent, and she sat back down at the dresser as she struggled to tamp down the heat that rose in her cheeks. After a few minutes of thinking very hard on mill finances and the logistics of supplying Mary's kitchen on the mill premises, she trusted herself to think upon her husband again, and his uncommonly long hours. Still, the heat hummed through her, distant and low and sweet, whispering wicked thoughts to her. Batting them away, Margaret shook her head and decided that if her husband and master would not come to her, she would go to him, and entreat him to come to bed.

She wrapped John's dressing gown firmly about herself, pausing just a moment to revel in its plush warmth and to breathe in his musky scent. She had, of course, her own dressing gown, but John's was infinitely more comforting, and wrapping herself in it was the next best thing to his embrace. The wicked thoughts were back, whispering how if she wore the dressing gown just so, she could walk about in the nude and no one would be any the wiser, and after a moment's hesitation, she succumbed.

She hurried down to the study, clutching the gown tightly about her, and silently praying that no one else would be wandering the halls by chance, but she reached it unhindered. At the doorway, she stopped to take in the sight of her husband.

John was facing the fire with his back to the door and the desk, eyes closed as he rubbed his temples, and a wave of pity lanced through the heat that had been stealthily coursing through her body. Although Margaret's money had saved the mill, it had come with a series of delays and interrupted a number of legal proceedings that had further complicated matters of debt and creditors. The entire affair was exhausting, and John was determined not to let anyone else interfere in his seeing it through impeccably. Her John looked as if he had not slept in days; Margaret knew that he had been keeping impossible hours, and felt a pang of guilt for keeping him up so late in bed this past month. She next noticed his comparative state of dishabille; his customary black jacket slung carelessly over the chair, his cravat was loosened on his desk, his splendidly tailored waistcoat was undone, his crisp white shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his hair was tousled out of its neat style. The heat roared back, and Margaret's knees wavered deliciously for a second as she recalled the last time his hair had been tousled so.

Margaret slipped into the room, shut the door quietly behind her, and wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her cheek against her warmth of his back. He stiffened briefly, startled, but relaxed when he realized who it was.

"You should be in bed, my love." John's voice hummed against her cheek, a deep rumble of thunder at this distance. He lifted her arms gently, turned, and replaced them around his waist, reciprocating the action by embracing her in kind. Breathing in the light scent of her hair and savoring the gentle softness of her body pressed against his, he allowed himself a smile, a moment of relaxation and respite.

"I was lonely. I missed you." Her voice was muffled, her face buried against his chest as she breathed in his scent; his dressing gown was only a poor substitute for its master. She looked up, and John blessed every second of that providential train ride that had let their paths cross once more. "Come to bed, my love, this can wait until morning, when your head will be the clearer for it." Margaret was pleased with how steadily her voice came out; her blood was roaring so loudly and her heart pounding so thunderously that she was sure he could _hear_ her less than chaste intention for bringing him to bed.

"Go back to bed, dear heart; I must finish just one last item of business, but I promise I will join you shortly." He cupped her face in his hands, intending to duck down for a soft kiss, but was surprised when Margaret lifted her arms to his head and held him there for a more passionate embrace. Surprised, but only briefly, as the twin forces of habit and lust stimulated his sinews, and he responded quite readily in similar fashion. One hand cradled her head against his, while the other slid down her shoulder, and pushed away the fold of her dressing gown—no, _his_ dressing gown, he noted with a mixture of amusement and confusion— expecting the light cotton and lace of her nightdress, only to meet bare skin.

He broke off the kiss in surprise, and Margaret growled with disapproval. Pushing her back at arms-length, he studied her more closely. Yes, she was wearing his dressing gown, an article of clothing sufficiently large enough to cover her without anyone being aware of what she was wearing beneath it—if she was wearing anything at all. The soft white curve of her shoulder peeking through the loosened arm of the dressing gown seemed to prove the last idea true, rather than false, and the thought of Margaret wearing nothing under his dressing gown sent a hot jolt to his groin.

"Margaret…" His voice was a low thrum that sent a lovely frission down Margaret's spine. She could not know that he did not trust himself to speak more than that, but she did know that he had recognized just how clothed she was—not. Unbeknownst to her, sultry little smile began to bloom on her face, a lascivious smirk that lived only in John's most sordid fantasies, and sent his manhood flaring to life.

She drew herself up, throwing her head back into that notorious self-confident poise; a movement that allowed the dressing gown to slip further down her shoulders, and John swallowed nervously. "Mr. Thornton, you are guilty of cuckolding your wife with work and failure to perform your marital duties," she purred in a voice that barely seemed hers. "Thus, I am forced to employ desperate measures to bring you back to bed." She closed the distance between them, keeping her eyes locked on John's, and he saw a smokiness there, a powerful primal urge that called on him to throw all caution to the wind and take her here and now.

For her part, Margaret did not feel as powerful and sensual as John thought she looked, but the darkness in John's eyes drew her onward and gave her courage. "I fear that I have a terrible affliction at the moment, you see, John," she whispered, the softness of her breath on his sensitive neck sending sparks through his body, and he froze with the effort of trying to remain a gentleman. "It keeps whispering such naughty, inappropriate thoughts into my head," she continued, reaching to slip the waistcoat off his unresisting shoulders, past his clenched fists. Now that she was not making a conscious effort to keep the dressing gown modest, it had started to gape at the chest, and John was making a valiant effort not to gape with it.

Summoning up his willpower, he grabbed her wrists before her hands undid another of his shirt buttons. "Margaret," he whispered hoarsely, "we cannot do this here, someone will see us—"

"Everyone else is asleep… no one will see us," she whispered back, the same dark velvety tone that threatened to overwhelm his better nature. She bestowed light, gossamer soft kisses along his jaw, meandering down his neck, and with a groan, he jerked her face up, landing open-mouthed on her lips, crushing her body into his, wrists forgotten. She melded into him with a sigh, and her fingers flew down the front of his shirt, leaving a trail of undone buttons and an increasing expanse of hard pale skin in their wake. For his part, he was sliding the dressing gown off her shoulders, his mouth moving off hers and down her neck, stopping to nibble at her earlobe, before continuing their inexorable downward descent, fuelled by the pants and sharp gasps emerging from his smoldering goddess.

Between kisses and nibbles, he managed to whisper-pant, "What about your monthly…"

She ceased her ministrations for a moment and whispered, "It is done…" before renewing her assault on his shirt, tugging it out of his trousers.

When her fingers reached his trousers, she deftly undid those buttons, and with a sharp tug, they pooled on the floor. John took the opportunity to undo the cord holding the dressing gown shut, and it joined the discarded trousers and waistcoat in a soft puddle of damask and linen.

He spared a moment to admire his handiwork: Margaret, dark hair tousled, pale body flushed, dark nipples swollen and erect, with that thrice-damned expression on her face. "Beautiful," he breathed, before pulling her close, feeling her soft bosom against the bare skin of his chest.

Margaret laughed; a low sibilant noise that quivered through John's body, making his already painful erection strain against the confines of his drawers. "This is hardly fair, John; you are still fully clothed." She reached up to slip his shirt off his shoulders when they heard footsteps coming down the hallway.

Both froze for a moment and then sprang into action. Margaret ducked below the desk, taking his discarded items of clothing with her, while John hastily buttoned his shirt as best he could and pulled the dressing gown closed over the rest of his body, and quickly sat down, picking up a pen, trying to ignore the feeling of Margaret undoing his shoes and tugging off his socks.

Moments later, there came a knock at the door.

"John?"

"Yes, mother?"

The door opened, and Hannah Thornton walked in. "Are you still working? I thought I heard voices."

John dipped his pen and scrawled a note on one of the pages strewn before him. "You must have been—" his breath hitched, as he felt small hands slide up his thighs towards his groin. "You must have been mistaken, mother," he said through gritted teeth. "There is no one here but me."

"When did you undress?" she asked, taking note of the dressing gown, an article of clothing she knew he disliked.

"After you went to bed, mother. I followed Margaret up, but when she fell asleep I came back down to finish some work." Those unseen hands crept over the top of his drawers, and he noticed _his_ hand shaking and forced it still.

The venerable Mrs. Thornton, Sr. also noted the shaking hand and cast a worried look upon her son. "Are you feeling quite well, John? Your cheeks are flushed; should I send for Doctor Donaldson?"

"No!" he burst out just a trifle too loudly, as mischievous hands slipped his engorged member out of its strictures. He swallowed thickly, regaining a measure of self-control, and continued more calmly, "No, mother, I just have a stomach pain and require some sleep, but I will be fine." He lowered his head to his work again, letting his breath out in an unseen, inaudible hiss as a hot breath fell upon his intimate regions, followed by a sweet wetness engulfing his tip.

Mrs. Thornton did not appear convinced, but she was tired and she let it go. "Very well. Go to bed soon, John. Margaret will be waiting. Good night."

"Good night, mother." She closed the door behind her and as her footfalls echoed away, John let out an explosive breath.

"You little minx!" he had intended to scold, but instead what emerged was a groan, as Margaret eased her mouth up and down his length, licking at various pleasurable junctures, and he desperately resisted the urge to push her head down on it faster. Somehow, in the time it took for Mrs. Thornton to cross the room and shut the door, Margaret had divested him of his drawers.

Margaret looked up innocently from between his thighs, hands alternating with her mouth in lightly stroking and massaging his penis. She stopped with a giggle at his attempts at a stern expression and whispered, "But you have always enjoyed this before! Should I stop? Does it no longer give you pleasure?"

"That is not what I meant, and you know it, love," he growled as he pushed the chair away from the desk, allowing her to crawl out from the space below.

Once again, she stood before him in all over her tousled naked glory, and once again, the sight of her beautiful body caused him to catch his breath in wonder. She leaned over him, nudging the dressing gown aside with a dissatisfied growl, and he contemplated the soft globes that hung before his face, reaching languidly for a taste, but she batted his hands aside.

"Now, where were we, John? Oh yes, I was settling a score." She pulled him up, pushed off his crisp shirt to reveal his lightly muscled chest, and they stood before each other, naked as Adam and Eve. She let out a nervous laugh and licked her lips. The flickering firelight deepened the contours of his body and heightened the shadows on his face, illuminating those beautiful blue eyes. "Yess…" she breathed, "this is much better."

"Good," he replied curtly and drew her close, redoubling his sensual onslaught. His hands in sync roamed through her disheveled hair, slid down the smooth length of her back to her small waist, cupped and kneaded her soft buttocks, before they parted ways, one moving up to stimulate her breasts, while the other slid between her legs and that tangle of dark, coarse hair to the core of the heat that sang through her. Her body arched towards him as his mouth slid down her neck again, finally reaching her nipples, she writhed and mewled as his expert tongue and fingers teased, pinched, massaged, and stroked her into a delirious wetness.

Her fingers tangled into his dark hair, skimmed the day-old stubble on his jaw, slid down the muscular expanse of his chest before coming to rest around his erection, causing him to groan fitfully into her chest as she stroked and caressed the organ.

"Enough!" John's voice was rough with promise and Margaret sighed involuntarily as his body lost contact with hers. He piled everything from the table haphazardly on the floor—yet away from any possible stains, ink or otherwise, she noticed with amusement—before picking her up and throwing her bodily onto the table.

She squealed at the sudden wild treatment, but it turned into a gasp as he sheathed himself in her. "Ohhhhh, yessss…" she hissed, as his length briefly damped the coil of heat raging in her, her arms and legs wrapping around him for better purchase. On the table, sitting very nearly upright, he seemed to touch deeper reaches of her than ever. They both paused to savor the sensation of first contact. Their eyes locked. Margaret saw her face, its sultry promise that was the undoing of John Thornton, reflected in his eyes, and finally understood what was so different about tonight. "More," she whisper-commanded, a canticle in the firelight.

He thrust again, slowly at first, but increasing with speed, plunging harder, grunting with the effort. Margaret moaned long and low, digging her nails into his back, gripping his buttocks and pulling him deeper in her, and that too spurred him on.

"H-harder! Deeper!" Margaret moaned softly, in a husky, guttural whisper she did not recognize as coming from her. John redoubled his efforts, his breath coming hard and erratic, and Margaret felt the glowing tide mounting in her, growing crescendo with every thrust and shudder as she arched into him and her hips lifted to meet his.

"Margaret," he groaned into her neck, very nearly a prayer. He sweating with the exertion, with the effort of trying to hold off the end until she was there to meet him, but it was difficult, he was losing it, losing, lose…

"John," she gasped, "oh, yes, yes, yes…." She stiffened and spasmed, the rest of her yeses lost to a small scream that he muffled with his mouth, an explosion of light and euphoria in her. Her inner muscles clamped around his thrusting cock, which had begun to drive into her faster, out of control, and a few seconds later, he filled her with the warmth of his own spectacularly luminous climax. His thrusts slowed, as did her hips, and as he softened and slipped from her, they collapsed in a sweaty, satisfied heap on the table.

After a few moments of blissful cuddling, John broke the silence. "Mrs. Margaret Thornton, you are undoubtedly the wickedest minx I have ever had the pleasure of knowing."

"Hush, it was you who made me this way," she retorted. "Until I married you, I was quite a proper young woman." She rose; despite the pleasant solace John's embrace provided, the table was not conducive to lengthy reposes. Slowly, shyly, she pulled the dressing gown back over herself, tying it firmly closed. "I had only intended to tempt you into coming to bed, not carry out the bedding here," she muttered ruefully, as small abrasions and bumps from the vigor of their lovemaking began to manifest on her consciousness. Her husband chuckled and got up gingerly—he must also be feeling the small injuries making themselves known—, and together they collected his discarded articles of clothing. As he dressed, she busied herself by replacing all the items on the desk that had been displaced by their carnal act. With some surprise, Margaret realized something wet was leaking down her leg, and guessed it was John's seed. It had never happened before, but then, she supposed she had never gotten up directly after sexual congress either, and the explanation made sense.

"John?"

"Yes, love?" He carefully retied his cravat, an action Margaret thought pointless, given the late hour, but she enjoyed the flexing of his arms, the deftness of his fingers. Somehow, despite their latest actions, that reminder of his fingers' many accomplishments began stoking the ache in her anew.

"Will you come to bed now?" she asked plaintively.

He smiled and bent down with a soft kiss. "Dearest, if tonight's turn of events is what I can expect every time I am late to bed, I may never be on time," he laughed. "Still, it is late, and it would be ungentlemanly of me to leave my wife alone in bed, so tonight, at least, I will return."

"Perhaps if I only participated as vigorously on nights you retired early," she threatened obliquely, but obliged his kiss.

"It is not so late," he trailed off as they left the office hand in hand, glancing at her meaningfully.

She glanced up at him, the slight promise and question in his voice causing her to flush, but he assumed an air of innocence. "Margaret, why are you blushing?" he prodded, grinning rakishly—well, as rakishly as John Thornton, the improbably stern and proper master of Marlborough Mills, could possibly appear—and Margaret felt a slight flutter of that sweet ache growing in the pit of her belly again. She closed her eyes. Opened them.

"I am not," she declared as coolly as possible, but the blush deepened. He laughed again, swept her feet off the ground, carried her into their bedroom and kicked the door shut.

* * *

Ah, don't continue if you don't like reading about sex ed (or don't flame me if you do read it and decide it's not to your liking... flame away about the story, though, if you so desire)... somehow a small author's side note devolved into a rambling PSA about sex in the modern day and the Victorian era.

Just as a mostly unrelated note: in this universe, Margaret did _not_ undergo a bloody claiming of her virginity. Why? Because if you're bleeding during sex, it either means you're menstruating, or you need to use more lube (probably the latter. Use water-or silicone-based, because oil-based will destroy condoms). Hymens can break simply from going a good run, and besides, Margaret's first time in this universe was, to quote "The Great Sperm Race," full of "gourmet sex." It's probably historically inaccurate, but I just wanted her to have a good time. Contrary to popular belief, Victorians were not prudish to the extreme, and there are several primary sources, many by women, that document some very healthy and surprisingly progressive attitudes towards sex (in fact, that myth about covering table legs with little frills? Actually from a satirical story mocking _American_ prudery for a British audience). *gets off soapbox*


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